‘UnBoxified’ – BRIEF SYNOPSIS
Two lead characters’ first-account of a, partly fictional/partly based on true events, story in which mystery, gritty reality, comedy, romance and science-fiction, are the vehicles for a journey where the meaning of life, death and everything important in between, are the destination.
I don’t know when I became totally aware of how much I despised to be alive. I think it was gradual, like smelling the stench of somebody else’s fart about three feet away from you. No closer than at least twenty feet away is how I preferred to interact with people when my oldest sister died. That’s how I prefer it now, too. Call it custom, or survival instinct. Whatever. Now I remember when I became aware of how much I hated it here. I was a baby, trying to make sense of my own painfully awkward hands, while watching between annoyed and mesmerized the stream of multi-colour luminescent dots that swirl in the air back and forth and which one can’t brush off one’s sight no matter how hard one shuts one’s eyes.
I could hear them talking, and I would catch glimpses with my peripheral vision. Them, I. The separation continues. It was back then when I figured that the only way to breach it was to hurt badly. But as you may very well point out: it’s not a totally ideal situation. If your loved ones only get close to you when you hurt so much that you collapse there’s no really much point in living, is it? And so the next thing that comes to mind is that death is, in fact, the ultimate hurt, and thus, the best way to be forever loved. Which is, again, rather ironic. But enough of romanticisms. I know what you’re thinking. Molly ‘the Holy’, which is how I nicknamed another of my siblings, already told me:
“There are people out there who really have horrible lives, who’re starving or are being abused or beaten on a daily basis, how self-absorbed and ungrateful can you be?”
Well, let me tell you something, that’s the stupidest and most ineffective bullshit you can ever tell someone who’s really considering moving on from planet Earth. And so that’s how I replied:
“Oh wow, that really has opened my eyes, thank you, I feel so much better now. I hope those people feel better now too that I’m no longer a self-absorbed and ungrateful bastard”
Only that it doesn’t affect them in the slightest. They’re not going to stop suffering all of a sudden just because one feels far more fortunate than they are. It doesn’t make any difference, it doesn’t alter their circumstances, which is why Molly ‘the Holy’ could already anticipate the ‘fuck you’ forming in my lips. Well, that’s exactly what the suicidal bastard thinks. It isn’t any consolation to think there are people suffering even worse lives out there, if something else, it totally convinces him or her of how shitty this place is, as if one in this position needed any more convincing about that. You know that ‘fuck you’ is coming at you as furiously as you want to slap the self-murdering blob, which is when a song comes to mind that perfectly suits this moment in the soundtrack of my outrageously pitiful life. Thirty-three is such a sexy age number. It feels extremely dirty I wasted it.
I don’t think many people know that slapping someone who deserves it is even far more satisfying than one may have imagined beforehand, despite not solving any of their assholeness. And with this I’m not trying to promote violence. Violence doesn’t solve anything and neither needs any promotion; it already is pretty successful by nature.
Anyways, the point is that just when I was about to commit the deed, for real this time, as I even had the pills spread on my bed on the shape of a star, I got the first message: Don’t.
Obviously I freaked out and then remembered that I had drunk half a bottle of dark rum and smoked nothing less than a tea cup of pot. Obviously, I was hallucinating and kind of felt a mixture of pride and uneasiness about it. That’s my ‘feely’ reaction in every single one of my first times. I decided that my first time hallucinating was worth exploring and so I put off suicide for the day after.
I fell asleep and had vivid nightmares of me carrying on living what it felt like forever. Like the grandma I never had used to say “Green peppers will torture you, child, way into the night”. I guess she meant dark rum by green peppers but I’ll never know for sure until I actually eat green peppers before bedtime. I open Notepad, save as ‘To Do’ and write ‘green peppers for dinner’.
“Bloody hell” I thought to myself, the hangover kicking in that morning after. “What if dying is like a never-ending nightmare?” The thought of that made me shudder. It’s really unhelpful that nobody has come back to tell us what the rancid saffron happens when one leaves the stage. My mouth was pasty and my throat felt really dry. I turned my body in a strenuous effort and as my right foot touched my phone, on the floor, I remembered the text message. I would have sworn at that moment that I had dreamed it but, nevertheless, I had to look.
I dragged my right arm to meet with my right foot, which was already pushing the device closer to the bed. I grabbed it as I could for my head felt so heavy that I could hardly move it so I was just working by feel by that point. As I brought closer the screen to my eye level, and pressed the start button on top of the device, my heart started pounding.
There it was: Don’t.
“What the…” I could hardly mutter, and that’s when it startled me again, another beep. Another incoming message.